


Locus, Alone

by soulclefxi



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Compliant, a very unhealthy relationship, also trying to work with some of the halo lore, felix is dead, locus' adventures in space with santa, the relationship tag is really just reminiscing, upon..
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-20 13:50:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12434175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/soulclefxi/pseuds/soulclefxi
Summary: In the vast, cosmic sense of the universe, it is difficult to truly be alone. Through the nagging of an alien ai, several inconvenient interferences, and running from the blood on his hands, Locus does his best.





	Locus, Alone

**Author's Note:**

> This is a canon fill fic! Takes place in between seasons 13 and 15, and potentially some after?  
> Not beta read, admittedly, and the halo lore in here is riddled with holes at best. But I really really like Locus, so uh. That's something.

He begins with putting as much distance between himself and the temple as possible. Easy enough, when cloaked. Even so, his steps feel too loud when they hit rock. Taking a motorcycle or any other vehicle is out of the question. A ship is much faster, and there should be plenty abandoned around the fronts. Preferably with key codes still intact.

                Locus has never believed in luck, but he is fortunate to come upon an escape route within an hour. He watched as the soon-to-be unfortunate guard waddled off to relieve himself, and dashed inside. The roar upon liftoff drowns any regretful cries to wait or come back. Once the ship reaches cruising altitude, Locus’ eyes drift up to the fuel gauge. Half empty. Unfortunate. He’ll have to stop much sooner than planned, still within the UNSC’s reach from Chorus. Paying for gas with Hargrove’s fund is a foolish idea, as well. The account monitors the location of purchase. Hargrove isn't a threat, certainly, but his resources are. And those resources, after his likely arrest, would be easily picked through by the authorities. No; the best option would be to change transportation completely, once he stopped for fuel.

                However, there is nothing he can do until that time comes. Locus puts the stolen ship on autopilot once it cuts through Chorus’ atmosphere. He has roughly three hours to sleep, and another two to pick a suitable pit stop. Unsurprisingly, the day’s events weigh on his shoulders, and it isn’t long before the ex-mercenary drifts into an unsteady sleep.

                He wakes too fast, helmet smacking against the ceiling with an ear-splitting thwack. The ship’s low-fuel alarm sounds like an explosive. It ticked away inside his dreams until the imaginary impact shakes him into consciousness. Blinking inside the helmet, it takes several minutes steady his breathing and regain any semblance of self-control. The alarm dims, but its message remains the same.

                >LOW BATTERY: 17%.  
                >FUELING STATION COORDINATES: OUTPOST 7349XQC.  
                >APPROVE DESTINATION? Y/N

                Locus confirms it. He’s aware of the outpost, and its members are aware of him. An hour away, he should barely make it. It’s not ideal. But that’s what he gets for oversleeping. This behavior is unlike him. What he needs is focus. A cup of coffee. Habitually, he looks around, ready to receive some snide comment on his reduced performance—

                Oh.

                Right.

                The ship, though small, is empty, save for him. It’s only now that its empty chambers are beginning to bother him. Locus has no fear of the dark, but it is always times like these some deeply irrational part of him—one he’s spent years silencing—loves to speak. It whispers in images, forecasts of his former partner emerging from one of the many shadows, to grab his neck, show how deeply he’d been disappointed in Locus’ betrayal.

                _Stop that,_ he berates himself.

                It does not stop. To assuage his fears, Locus turns on every remaining light in the ship. He reaches to his hip, and unsheathes the blade at his side. Its silver glow is reduced, under the fluorescents, but it is there. Locus’ satisfaction upon closing it is short lived. He opens it again. Watching for stutters, any sign that it would not open, even if he knows it should. Open. Closed. Open. Closed. Open—

                _What are you doing._

That voice is not his own. It is, however, all too familiar.

                The Sanghelli guardian appears at Locus’ shoulder. Santa. It is smaller here, roughly the size of Carolina’s epsilon unit, when it projects. Under the helmet, Locus’ face contorts into a scowl.

                “What are you doing here?”

                _As you left the temple, I replicated a small portion of my essence in the handle of your sword._

“Why.” Already, Locus glances at the aforementioned handle. No doubt there is some sort of tracking software inside it. Curse his inattentiveness. There must be some way to remove it, somehow.

                _You are worried that I track you. Do not preoccupy yourself too much with it. My concern is more for the sword’s sake than your own. It is a powerful artifact, and you are an unruly wielder. I suspect you will be eliminated soon, and I intend to recover it._

Locus is searching for the creature’s off switch.

_Until that day comes, however, I will not share your location. My primary duty lies with the general, and stabilizing the land of the temples. My presence here is much reduced, and is merely to monitor you._

This halts Locus’ search in its tracks. It is enough to make him look at the hologram, admittedly still with distrust.

                “I have no way to hold you to this, of course.”

                _You do not._

Perfect. Locus is ready to sheathe the blade once more before the AI repeats its question.

_What are you doing._

                “None of your business.” Locus closes the blade, and it fades into the sheath. The holograph, however, remains, for just a moment. When it disappears it is clear to both that it does so because it wants to, and not because the mercenary told him so. Once again, Locus is alone in the cabin.

                Even this precious alone time is interrupted by the ships infernal beeping. Forty-five minutes until his destination. He has roughly thirty of them to make himself presentable. With a sigh, Locus sits in the cot bunker and removes his helmet.

                He has a long way ahead of him.


End file.
